May, 2010:

So, did you see the new writing I posted on this website? Probably not, because I tend to bury my work in tabs at the top of the page.

I added a new short story to Tiny Fiction (made of ashes), and a brand new and exciting tab called “Scurvytown.”

Last night, I attended the third meeting of the Full Art Spectrum (also can be found on Facebook). The first meeting was an organizational one, the second one, I was out of town, and this third one, well I was ill, so I was mostly there as audience/moral support. In my cough syrup induced haze, apparently I volunteered to write and then perform some poetry for a jazz festival in July (or maybe THE jazz festival, dunno, details are fuzzy).

Anyway, I am kind of concerned about this, so I asked around a bit, because of another cough syrup induced line of thinking. It occurred to me that there simply are not enough cowbells in jazz music, and perhaps I can start off with that, and work my way into honoring a musical styling I know little to nothing about. Definitely going to ask around more and get acquainted with some tunes before I launch into some words on the subject. Thankfully, we have a poet wrangler who will help me from messing up, and making a jackass out of all of us (I know, and wow, putting it that way, she certainly has her work cut out for her).

On a similar note, I have been paying attention to other people’s poetry a lot more these days, looking at what wins awards, what other people are writing about, and generally, how other people write. I have come to the conclusion that I am pretty much a lyricist as opposed to a poet. I mean, okay, semantics, subtle differences. It reminds me of a friend who was told he wasn’t an artist so much as an illustrator. Like, wtf, right? For me, I guess it kind of burns to write lyrics and to lack the skill set to turn them into songs. And lyrics don’t win poetry awards (though they did for me in college, I confess), and if I am any kind of lyricist at all, it is a Robert Pollard style for sure. Prolific, short, and even-tempered pieces, they swoop in, make a point (or gibberish), and get right back out. Beginning, gooey innards, ending. Kind of like a sammich. Mmm, sammiches.

Anyway, that is all for now. I have to do some more work on the second chapter of Scurvytown, and then get some sleep. I have a whole slew of episodes lined up. Should be a lot of fun to write!

Funny thing, laryngitis. It really is. I mean, not only do you sound funny when you actually try to speak, but not being able to talk above a whisper can sort of twist you about, and make you a bit more introspective and thoughtful. As a typical motormouth, this is probably a good thing for me.

(A little aside while I pat myself on the back for spelling laryngitis correctly on the first try. Oh and while I’m having an aside, yes, this means I am sick AGAIN. Grrrrr!)

I was sort of enjoying the peace and quiet, as I took the day off work yesterday when something unexpected and annoying happened. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but honestly, I’ve listed all my writing projects here before, in a desperate attempt to do a triage on them. So it’s fairly apparent that the last thing I needed was yet another writing project in the queue.

Alas, as I was setting up my email account in Mac mail, in preparation for beginning grad classes in the fall, I also decided to set up a new gmail account based on my personal twitter account. However, that name was taken, so I had to find an alternate name, and as I was in the midst of setting that account up in Mac mail, I realized I had a new story idea on my hands.

The funny thing is, this is not exactly a new story. In my current writing notebook, which I have been towing around for nearly 2 years now, I wrote a story while in the waiting room at the dentist. It’s the oldest piece of fiction in the writing journal, and I never thought I would do anything with it. It’s so odd how these things sort of manage to worm their way into the forefront after months upon months of dust gathering.

I am just kind of in an ARGH sort of mood over my writing in general. I need focus, and I really hope grad school teaches me how to focus and stick with something, because first and foremost, I think I need to learn that. I cannot ever seem to finish old projects when I keep thinking of new ones, and when old ones keep playing a game of whack-a-mole, distracting me and begging my attention at irregular and difficult to predict intervals.

Ah chaos, how you do so rule the world. But even you, chaos, yes, even you have a pattern. One day it will trip you up. I’d like to trip you up, but I will settle for time healing a few lingering wounds and getting my voice back, first. After that, I am done settling. I’d like to trip you up.

I was a botany major in college, and my specialty was trees. Ask me what a flower is, punk, I dare you. I probably don’t know. I mean, I know what flowers are, duh, but specific ones, I most likely don’t know or don’t recall. But trees of southwestern Ohio, I’m your science nerd!

In the back yard here in northern Kentucky, where I sit trying to let out some mental demons on the page, we have some nasty trees. Cottonwood. Mulberry. Honeysuckle tree wannabes. And Hackberry.

Hackberry trees are gross because of their leaves. They look diseased, but their warty nature is a result of totally groady insects!!! Seriously, there is an insect pod (or several) on the underbelly of each leaf. I think, in some version of history, we’re all pretty much doomed by our insect overlords. Some pretty icky photos can be found on this website that google dredged up for me.

I swear this has writing issue relevance. My goofy little anecdotes about the world surrounding me usually do, so fear not.

I was looking up at the leaves of the hackberry and feeling a sort of kinship. Ugly and better left to a chainsaw, only a smidge of an extreme thought. More of a thought about my attempts at screenwriting. I have these really brilliant ideas and keep getting blocked when I make the attempt to organize these outlines into the format in which I truly feel they belong to be expressed.

So what do I do? I am not certain, but I have glimmers of optimism running through my mind and veins. Optimism shimmers through me like the glitter in my lip gloss. I am on the right track, I think, or maybe the wrong train on the right track? If that makes sense at all.

I feel this itch to get these words out, and get them out properly. I also feel this itch because it was hella buggy outside and I am utterly scrumdiddlyumptious to mosquitoes. I am thinking I need to take some kind of class, or check out a few how-to books from the library and figure this stuff out on my own. A class sounds more fun, but those typically cost money, and the library is free, so that’s my kind of option.

Wish me luck, staying optimistic, trying to stay on task. At least I can keep story-boarding and building while I try to wrap my brain around this format/outlet.